


I welcome my penance

by wearethewitches



Series: I am weak, my love and I am wanting [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bards, Dandelions, F/F, Geraskier Week, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tattoos, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, background yen x tissaia, her sweet kiss, soulmate face tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22703587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Often, Geralt thinks of the lioness hiding in the centre of his tattoo – peeking her head out and clawing at his hairline like the cat it is. Like Cirilla and pale gold like her hair, almost invisible, but ready to strike at a moment’s notice.But it is the flowers that people see and it is the flowers that people laugh at.~(geraskier week, day one: soulmates)
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: I am weak, my love and I am wanting [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632970
Comments: 12
Kudos: 766





	I welcome my penance

Many deride the Witcher with flowers on his face.

Grey drawings of buttercups and dandelions bloom along Geralt’s cheek, tattoos following his jawline and fringing the curve of his eye. They are tattoos that signify his soulmate, someone who can be personified in flower form – someone who will either be the romantic love of his life or his best companion. Often, Geralt thinks of the lioness hiding in the centre of his tattoo – peeking her head out and clawing at his hairline like the cat it is. Like Cirilla and pale gold like her hair, almost invisible, but ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

But it is the flowers that people see and it is the flowers that people laugh at.

Jaskier described them as _humanising_ once, something that people remember and ascribe him traits for – hard on the outside, cuddly on the inside. Clearly, he’d have to be, if his soulmate is someone so gentle.

“It’s bull,” Yennefer says, half-drunk and still going. Blue lightning carves through her own field of shadowy dandelions and buttercups, almost consuming them with its brightness. The way it’s coloured signifies how she’s met the owner, though like Geralt, her flowers are grey. The first time Geralt saw her – saw _them_ upon her cheek in almost the exact way his own are – he knew they’d be connected for life one day, through whomever their marks belong to.

Yennefer points at Geralt with her goblet of wine, eyes narrowed. “Tissaia and I are- we belong with each other. We _belong_ to each other, Geralt and our lightning was an event. A thing. It didn’t personify either of us. It was a time, a place – an event, like _my_ fire on _her_ bloody eye!”

“You’ve had enough, if you’re talking to _me_ about _Tissaia._ ” Geralt reaches for her goblet, taking it away from her. Yennefer frowns and it’s a sign of how friendly they are, that she doesn’t hiss or otherwise threaten him for it. Curious, however, Geralt asks her, “When was the last time you saw each other?”

“Last spring. We fucked and then she left, like some scared rabbit,” says Yennefer, clearly sulking. Geralt _hmms_ , then look over to where Cirilla is hesitantly plucking away on Jaskier’s lute. The bard is getting older – no longer does he bother walking alongside them when they travel, instead bringing his own horse. It is a sign that their human friend is not the young stripling he was, years past.

Geralt finds himself mourning the days that remain. Jaskier is his bard. His propagator of song and myth – and Geralt will ache for him when he finally begins to rot in the ground, dead and gone.

“Hey, Julian!” Someone from the crowd crows, “Play us an actual song, would you? Something with nude ladies and a cock!”

Jaskier gasps, “How dare! My young apprentice should not be hearing such words! And the name is _Jaskier_ , you cad!”

The man who crowed laughs. “I remember you when your moniker was something only a little less girly, _Dandelion._ I thought you would have preferred Julian.”

“I prefer Jaskier.” Jaskier replies, his face twisting into an expression of mortification. “Oh shit. Devlin.”

‘Devlin’ makes his way over to Jaskier and Cirilla’s side, ruffling Ciri’s hair and calling her a scamp. Geralt is on edge immediately and even Yennefer has her beady eyes set on the trio.

“How is my little cousin doing? I never thought you’d take responsibility for a kid in your life,” says Devlin. _Cousin?_ Geralt thinks in confusion as Devlin winks at Ciri. “You know, you’ve got a brother in-”

 _"Devlin,_ Fiona here isn’t mine.” Jaskier splutters, waving his arms wildly before seemingly finding his wits and pointing at Geralt. “She’s his!”

Devlin turns. He sees Geralt and Yennefer glaring at him and at first revolts, fear in his eyes; but then, something curious happens. His eyes dart between them and his eyebrow rises, before he completely relaxes, laughing hard and loud.

“Yeah, _right_ , cous,” says Devlin, before he plucks Jaskier’s lute from Ciri and pushes it into the bard’s hands. “Sing _Her Sweet Kiss_ , Dandelion. Mother desperately wants you to come home to court and sing it for the family. I’ll pay a pretty gold coin for it, just for you.”

Jaskier can’t refuse gold, Geralt knows, seeing his expression and knowing his bard well enough to know what it means. The tavern people who had looked up at the loud conversation call out, all requesting the same song.

“…alright, then. But I’m not coming home, Devlin,” warns Jaskier, before he nudges Ciri. “Go sit with Geralt, my young apprentice. Listen to _Her Sweet Kiss_ , by the original songster!”

Ciri joins them at the table. She asks Yennefer, “Who is that? And why was he calling him Julian? And Dandelion? Aren’t those your soulmarks?”

 _O Ciri,_ thinks Geralt, wincing on her behalf. Royals are all the same – digging into business not their own. Luckily, it seems that Yennefer is still in a generous mood.

“Yes,” Yennefer states, watching like Geralt as Jaskier strums the opening chords to his infamous love song. “Let’s sit and watch the show.”

However, Ciri presses her. “But isn’t Jaskier your soulmate? His _name_ means buttercup and I recognise those, too!”

 _"Jaskier?"_ Yennefer exclaims, while Geralt slowly feels himself becoming stunned by Ciri’s words.

It couldn’t be…

Could it?

And Geralt looks to Jaskier, whose face holds of half-moon of lilacs, sat like a crown on his brow with a howling wolf head in its rim. _How did I not see it before?_ Geralt thinks, unable to process the truth.

Across the tavern, Jaskier sings,

_“Her current is pulling you closer_

_And charging the hot, humid night_

_The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool_

_Better stay out of sight.”_

His gaze falls on Geralt, like something out of a fairytale and the words flow from his mouth like a confession.

_"I’m weak, my love and I am wanting._

_If this is the path I must trudge_

_I welcome my sentence_

_Give to you my penance-_ ”

And then, his lyrics change, the bare whisper of Yennefer’s quiet _“shit”_ barely picked up upon as Geralt stands.

 _"Geralt, my jury and judge._ ”

Jaskier doesn’t sing the next chorus, though his audience does. His eyes are locked with Geralt’s, who ignores every pissing peasant and Jaskier’s cousin Devlin, just so he can storm forwards and grasp Jaskier’s face. It can barely be called cradling.

“Buttercups and dandelions,” he grinds out, resting his forehead against the grey wolf and lilacs that are tattooed on Jaskier’s own. The lute is crushed between them. Geralt can’t believe he was oblivious so long-

_(He lies to himself. He had thought of it before. He knew that ‘Jaskier’ meant ‘buttercup’.)_

-and now, here in the tavern, he hears Jaskier laugh under his breath and murmur, “Took you long enough,” before their lips press together, colour blooming across their faces. When the kiss ends, the tavern is quiet, except for Yennefer’s insane shout of “ _I WON THE FUCKING BET!_ ”

Jaskier jolts, peering over Yennefer’s shoulder to ask, “What bet? Why was there a bet?”

Geralt turns to look at the mage. Yennefer grins with all teeth. “I had no idea you were soulmates, but I damn well _knew_ you were in love. You’re an arsehole, Geralt. No-one except those that love you would willingly spend time with you.”

“And what does that make you?”

“Jaskier’s platonic soulmate,” says Yennefer, before Geralt turns back to Jaskier with a grunt full of denial. His eyes catch on Jaskier’s wolf. It hasn’t changed much – except it has, white and golden-eyed like him, instead of shadow and grey. Something in him lurches, knowing that the wolf means _him_ , means _Geralt of Rivia._

He wants to see what his flowers look like.

Without another word to the tavern folk – or Jaskier’s cousin – Geralt gathers his company and leaves for their rented room. When they enter, or in Yennefer’s case, stumble, he has no guilt over forcing Jaskier to press his hand to the mage’s cheek. In an instant, her flowers burst into colour, all yellows with a touch of green.

Ciri grins in excitement – and of course, _of course_ she has Geralt’s wolf on her, just like Jaskier. Now that Jaskier’s is coloured, they look identical. Geralt can’t remember a time he saw Ciri's in full without it being white and gold.

“You _are_ soulmates!” She exclaims, happy and near-bouncing in place. A moment later, a portal ripples into existence and Tissaia stumbles through. Her reunion with Yennefer is not something Geralt witnesses: he is too busy staring at Jaskier, who looks brighter for the purple lilacs crowning his forehead.

_Took you long enough._

“You knew,” Geralt figures, not even minding how Jaskier reaches up to twirl his pale hair on his index finger. “How long?”

“Oh, since the start,” reveals Jaskier, like it’s not important.

“We only get two soulmates in life,” Geralt grits his teeth, “even Witcher’s. I wanted to know.”

“And if you spoke my mother-tongue or asked me questions about my life-” Jaskier smiles and there is a touch of something there that hints at hurt “-then you would have been able to figure it out, too. As for me, well, it’s not every day that one has the Witcher’s sigil stamped upon their brow. I’ve always known what you were going to be. Similarly, stories of your own markings reached my ears. It’s really not that hard, when you have all the pieces.”

“Which you did.”

“Which I did,” Jaskier says happily, before smiling. “Would you kiss me again, Geralt? Because that was quite a short kiss and really, we’re being upstaged by those two witches right about-”

“Shut up,” Geralt pleads, before capturing his lips, mid-word.

He kisses his soulmate and thinks-

_Mine._


End file.
